the unbearable weight of emotional algebra
The body can endure compromise and the mind can be seduced by it.
Only the heart protests.
In a new environment it is easy to forget.
Easy and impossible just like anything worth remembering always is.
I write to keep, but I do not want to keep all the things I write.
Erasing does not work in real life, so why would it do so in fiction?
At the beginning of every new chapter you must decide what to do with the past one.
And all the ones that came before that,
where do they fit in, how do they relate, what do they say about me?
Am I true to myself or do I make compromises so that I can go on writing?
It is easier to live among words and letters than people.
Is it the power? The manipulation? The detachment?
I don't want to connect the dots while disconnecting myself.
The distinction between these two worlds has never been more clear.
Having poured all of myself into words, phrases, aphorisms,
I do not want to become a closed book on the shelf.
Why keep writing emotional algebra when I never could solve equations?
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